


red roses - act one

by skitty_titty



Series: the story of the rose [1]
Category: Far Cry 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Other, [tags are being updated as the chapters advance - more characters will be added], rated teen & up for swearing/violence/the occasional sex joke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-05-13 01:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14739152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skitty_titty/pseuds/skitty_titty
Summary: the red rose is a symbol of love. they're everywhere - valentine's day, a gift to show your lover, even though your 'love' shouldn't have to be proved; in movies, some shitty film where the white guy kisses the white girl, and they become prom king and queen, and then their relationship falls down and breaks into pieces, because that's what monarchs deserve; and, in mythology, the true reason they are what they are.did you know that aphrodite - the goddess of love, and many things more - once had a lover? and, did you know that zeus - the god of lightning, and everything worse - had created him in a perfect image, to trick the god who yearned for love, to force them apart, to establish some kind of sick revenge.as he lay there, bleeding out on the forest floor, she cries and her hand slices, on a piece of wood, on a sharp rock, on her lover's knife, as every tale is different, and the blood dribbles down from her wound and drips on a white flower, the rose specifically. all roses used to be white. all of them.but now, they're blotted red with the ink of blood, and will remain that way. they symbolise romantic love, of course, but everyone forgets about the sacrifice and courage that comes behind it too.





	1. the foundation

**Author's Note:**

> WORK CURRENTLY ON HIATUS
> 
>  
> 
> warnings (for the first chapter):  
> -minor manipulation/bullying  
> -alcohol ment.  
> -canon typical violence (ment. of guns, knives, bullets, etc)  
> -hints of cancer (& said character passes away)  
> -descriptions of blood
> 
>  
> 
>   
>  p.s.: sometimes i can be a bit _too_ careful with the tagging, so if you've played the game, then you'll be fine with everything in this story.  
> 

there’s a common misconception in the world: soulmates are just lovers.

there’s many types of love - a parent’s love, when their child manages to do a puzzle that they’ve been struggling with, a bright smile, revealing their three lone teeth, on their face, lighting everywhere up to their eyes; a brother’s love, an “i can fuck with you, but if anyone else does, it’s over”; a friend’s love, watching them grow and succeed, and supporting them even when it seems like everything’s over.  

but soulmates are so much more.

they’re linked - by soul, but also by body; by pain and comforts.

sometimes it’s a reassuring hand on your shoulder, on your waist, on the small of your back, or a press of lips against your own. it can be reassuring, or not. depends on what it is.

other times, it’s a sharp stinging on your hand (a burn?), or a low ache in your collarbone (is it broken?), or even a sharp sensation in your side (shit, are they getting stabbed?).

there are benefits and there are drawbacks, especially when you’re in a test and you suddenly stand up screaming bloody murder about why your face feels like it’s about to explode. 

ajay’s ushered out of the room quickly, as the rest of the class snickers, despite everything. the three teachers overseeing the exam glare, with one directing ajay out of the room into her usual classroom. the walk down the corridor is eerily silent; ajay admits that he’s a little scared.

“ajay.” the teacher says, the usual disappointed tone which sneers his name wrong (he doesn’t correct them anymore). “i thought you promised to do better.”

“it’s not my fault my skull feels like it’s splitting in two!” he shouts back, before he can stop himself. it isn’t his fault, and he shouldn’t fucking be here. when he meets his soulmate, he swears he’s going to scream. 

“don’t talk like that to me.” she snaps, and his mouth snaps shut. she’s tall, but her eyes seem to peer into your soul, and her heels click a menacing melody as she walks around her classroom, gesturing for him to sit. her voice turns slightly softer, almost faux-sympathetic: “maybe you should see a therapist. they might be able to make it easier for you and your… troubled soulmate.”

“i’m not seeing a shrink.” he hisses, and looks down at the table; whether it’s to hide his blush of embarrassment or the tears that want to come, it seems to work, as the teacher just nods, letting it go.

“i’ll have to talk to the headmaster about this behaviour, though, ajay.” she says, and ajay just sighs. “you promised me you’d improve. i think you’ll be lucky if your given a suspension.”

ajay just sighs again; his mother is going to be so disappointed.

 

* * *

 

ishwari is not disappointed, but treats him with a type of pity. still, he leans into it - accepting the ice cream and movie invitation -, enjoying his mother’s attention, which usually is given to one of her jobs.

they cuddle together on the couch, a shared blanket between them. their house isn’t too big, with it having a small kitchen, a living room, a bathroom, and two bedrooms, none of which were very spacious.

it’s fine, though, as they’re together. ishwari is rubbing a hand through her son’s hair, whilst he stares at the movie with wide eyes - holy shit he can’t die he’s the main fucking character ( _ language! _ \- a playful scold).

 

* * *

 

school comes back quickly, and the time of flies by. there’s a few snickers, likely from people remembering his ‘outburst’, when people notice him, but everyone else remains oblivious to his presence.  class continues as normal. he’s taken out of a lesson for a retest, and he thinks he’s done okay. the extra days of revision helped, too, along with his mom’s encouragement. 

and yet, the few boys who like to spend time with him still wait for him at the gate; he sees them, sends a quick text to his mom, saying that he won’t be home until late (but it’s not like she’ll see it, with work and everything). 

they greet him with wicked grins and eyes that glint with something almost scary, almost sinister.

“you ready.” they say, wrapping their claws around ajay’s arms, his throat, his jaw, pulling and twisting him closer. it’s a statement, not a phrase; and ajay knows better than to question the authority of the pack. 

he nods back, though. not a question, but it needs an answer. 

the leader - he’s taller than the rest, and looks like he works out just that little bit more - steps forward, the other’s close behind, and after that, everything is history, with ajay’s hands shaking, twitching, clutching around the knife.

it doesn’t get used, but it’s enough, especially when he’s present when there’s a gun in someone else’s palm.

 

* * *

 

“oi.” there’s hammering against the cell bars. “wake up. we’re ready to talk to you.”

ajay shakes his head, wiping his hair from his forehead (when did it get that long?), and stands with legs shaking like a fawn. 

the interview is scarier than he imagined, with a blaring light and harsh words. ajay kind of wants to curl up into a ball and cry for a year, but he supposes that wouldn’t help. so, instead, he tells them everything he can - about how he didn’t really want to be there, but they’d made threats about his mother, even going as far to show that they knew where she worked, and ajay thought it would be better, easier, nicer if he just went along with it.

they’re slightly sympathetic on the other side of things, and thank ajay for the information on who did it (there’s another, quieter thank you for being caught).

in the end, ajay is given community service, as he didn’t actually hurt anyone (he just stood guard, though he did a piss poor job because he didn’t realise why he was actually there until he heard a gunshot).

he didn’t mean to be a problem child, but it’s hard when the only people who seem to be able to put up with you are the ones infecting you (he wonders whether his soulmate would be mad at him for of the aching holes in his arms, or for the alcohol coming back up, burning his throat and ruining any standing belief of either of them being okay) .

 

* * *

 

“mom?” ajay asks, closing the back door behind him. it’s silent in the house, but it usually is, as his mum tends to nap in her room after a shift. he opens the fridge, sees that it’s practically empty, but takes the last of the orange juice anyway. it’s a day from expiring, so he might as well. “mom?” he asks again, louder this time, walking towards her bed room.

he lightly taps on the door, but she’s a light sleeper and would wake up from that. but there’s no reply - the worry is starting to sneak up his throat, like a lion trailing its prey-, so he knocks again, louder, with one more cautious “ _ āmā _ ?”, before going in.

the room is empty, with the curtains drawn, making the room have a dim glow. the bed’s made, from the morning, and everything is normal.

the fear fades, just a bit, but it digs its claws to his insides (it is also, kindly, ignored).

“she’s probably working overtime,” he says to himself, but reaches for his phone anyway. he’s not sure if she’ll get into trouble for answering the call. “please pick up.” he begs, when the phone continues to ring.

there’s a beep - it’s been accepted - but an unfamiliar tone, which is bright and chirpy, and the opposite of what ajay feels.

“hello! who is this?”

“who are you?” he interrupts. “where’s my mom?”

“ah, so you’re her son. i’ll give you over.”

there’s shuffling, and ajay takes the time to move to the couch. there’s a cough too, and a harsh ‘shit!’ followed with ‘i’m on duty so you didn’t hear me say that’ that accompanies a laugh, which turns into another cough - overall, it sounds like a shitshow, so it doesn’t lessen the worry.

“here she is!” the phone says, too jolly for the moment. “i’ll let you two talk for a bit. press the button if you need me!”

“ _ āma _ ?” ajay says, his voice soft.

“hello, ‘jay.”

“where are you?”

“i’m-” a cough, that sounds louder than it should be, even though it’s been smothered- “i’m at the hospital.”

“why? mom, are you okay?” there’s full blown panic now, and he stands, grabbing his backpack and walking out the door, barely remembering to lock up after himself. “i’m coming now.”

“i’ll tell you when you-” cough- “get here. you need to hear this in person.”

he only hangs up the phone once the hospital staff let him in his mother’s room. he immediately goes to hug her, to which his mom hugs back, though they both pull apart when she coughs again.

“i’ve got a cold.” she says, a weak smile, but ajay frowns.

“you shouldn’t be in hospital because of a cold, though.” his voice takes on a pleading tone. “mom, why are you here?”

“i’m dying.” she says. “haven’t got much time left to live."

“what do you mean.” a demand. there’s five stages of grief after all: and it all starts with denial. “you can’t be; you’re perfectly fine!”

“i’m in hospital.”

“for a cold!”

“you said it yourself, she wouldn’t be here for that.” a nurse chimes in, opening the door, an apologetic smile. “please, don’t yell. it’s not going to make anything better.”

and the hospital staff, the poor hospital staff, they have to see people cry and break down and die in front of them, and sometimes can’t do anything to help.

ajay supposes they’re used to it, as they don’t blink an eye when he starts sobbing like a four-year-old who’s being forced to bed, even if it’s well past their bedtime.

“don’t cry, ‘jay.”

“what do you expect me to do? laugh and say it’s okay?”

“ _ ajay _ .” her voice is begging now;  _ please stop, i can’t deal with you like this _ .

and he sits, rubs his hand through his hair, eyes closed. “how long have you known?”

“a while. you have to understand, i didn’t want you to worry.”

“we could have treated you!”

“and with what money?”

ajay thinks about how much he’s borrowed and never paid back, whether it was spent on extra food or alcohol or drugs, or even unneeded toys. he thinks about how it’s probably his fault, in some way, because it always is - but he nods, knows questioning everything would make it worse for her.

“ajay, when i--” there’s a falter, there, where both parties stay unnaturally silent. “take me to- to kyrat.”

“kyrat?”

“you’ll find it on the map.” she says. “a beautiful country. i was born there;  _ you _ were born there.” ajay repeats its name, quietly, as she continues. “‘jay, i have one wish. find lakshmana, for me. take me back to lakshmana.”

there’s silence in the hospital room, with the nurse gone and the machines buzzing their repeated ostinato. a clocks ticking too, though the time on it seems to be wrong. the room is empty and grey; the colour of bleak meaningless words, and yet, anything said means everything.

perhaps it falls on deaf ears, but he nods, clutching his jacket to himself a little tighter, whispering a quiet, “i will.”

 

* * *

 

so that’s how he finds himself on foreign soil, in a shaking minibus which travels the rough roads. the view of the mountains, and how it contrasts with the sky, was beautiful. the air is nice, too; breathable, compared to the city’s heavy fog. 

there’s an echoing of a bird’s song, and the sound of water running, though ajay can’t pinpoint where it’s from. everything is peaceful, even though there’s a monkey running around the minivan, seemingly picking people’s pockets. ajay watches it with weary eyes.

“passport.” a man says, holding out his hand expectantly. though his tone isn’t the kindest, he smiles, showing his age through the crinkling lines in his forehead. his eyes are brown, and his hair a light shade of it, too, like an oak tree’s bark, though there’s streaks of grey, revealing his age; his beard is scruffy, as are his eyebrows, but it seems to add to his character.

ajay hands it over, wide eyes still taking in the surroundings. he’s never left the city before, and the only time he’s seen the countryside has been through pictures, but they never really capture the full experience.

the man hands it back, after slipping a piece of paper inside of it. he makes a hand gesture towards his face, almost like a fan, and says, “breathe.” in a deep voice, and ajay feels a little bit of worry ebb away, even if he hadn’t realised it was there. ajay supposes this whole thing is a little bit scary, really; being in a place you don’t know, with only your cremated mother and a shitty phone as your ties to where you came from.

he turns back to the window, breathing deeply, as the man suggested. the bus comes to a stop, and there’s a man yelling ‘passport! passport!’ near the front of the bus, collecting everyone elses’. he passes it forward, weary of the monkey, who tries to snatch it, of course. it’s soon deterred, with a slap on its head from a glaring woman. 

ajay’s back to looking out the window, but then there’s soldiers, openly carrying guns. their red caps glare like the sun on a harsh day, burning into his mind, and their uniform is a grey-coloured camouflage.

their knocks are sharp, too, a quick rap on the window;  _ open up _ .

“what’s happening?” ajay asks, concerned; the bus was not supposed to be stopped, and that is what everyone told him. he’s shushed, though, by the man who originally took his passport. he’s leaning forward, a hand raised in a gesture towards ajay, eyes flicking between the guards with caution.

the driver steps out from behind the wheel, and they start talking in quick-fire nepali. everyone seems to be getting increasingly nervous, so ajay starts to get more nervous too, despite having no idea what’s going on; in fact, that’s what probably makes him even more nervous. everyone is nervous, and it is Not good.

two more guards appear from the back end of the truck, one of the mindlessly slinging a gun over his shoulder. ajay flinches, though only slightly. he may be goddamn terrified but he knows you can’t show it.

there’s a few more yells, but they’re getting drowned out by an approaching helicopter; everyone shifts in their seat, a panicking look in their eyes. everyone’s passports are thrown on the floor, then the leader of the soldiers seems to shout more commands, pointing off in different directions.

the two people who were sat behind ajay, dressed in blue clothing, a strange yellow sigil across the back and arms, jump out of the door, and then there’s more shouting, and sudden gunshots being fired.

ajay watches, with a sense of horror, as blood sprays across the windows. it’s only when there’s a hand pointing at him, and then a gun, that he ducks down, realising what’s actually happening - and this, my friends, is when the panic truly sets in.

this isn’t a video game but a very real event, with actual people dead and more likely to die. so he crouches on the floor, and follows the older man from the bus wherever he’s pushed too; compliance, even with friends, is better than sitting there and doing nothing.

when the climb outside of the van, there’s a helicopter landing, and ajay covers his eyes, stumbling forward. there’s soldiers surrounding him, and he’s pushed to the ground, gun barrel pointing at his face, mere centimetres away. he glances over at the older man again, who’s hands are linked against the back of his head, a position of submission, and ajay makes to do the same.

a man steps out of the helicopter, or who ajay assumes is a man, as the sun is shining in his eyes and he doesn’t have his glasses on anymore (it’s not like he can just go in his back pocket and bring out his contact lenses, can he?). the man’s dressed in a black waistcoat, accompanied with light pink trousers, that somehow match, against all odds. his hair is blonde, though the sides are dark and undyed; it’s a style very few people seem to be able to pull off.

he raises his hands to his mouth, as if he’s praying to God - for some strange reason. when he speaks, it’s quiet, barely heard over the helicopter, but it’s commanding, sharp and careful; a voice of someone who knows what they’re doing, and sure as hell know how to ruin you.

“i distinctly remember saying,-” the man starts, and he’s close enough for ajay to see the expression on his face; it’s a faux calm anger, which makes ajay incredibly scared. “ _ stop _ the bus; not…  _ shoot _ the bus.”

the soldier turns his head, looking straight forward, his hand clasped on his shoulder, as if he’s wounded. fear flicks in his eyes, as ajay watches the scene play out.

“yes. stop the bus. i’m very particular with my words: stop, shoot. stop! shoot!” he gets louder and louder as he goes, moving nearer and nearer to the shaking soldier, like a stalking fish in water. “do those words sound the same?”

the soldier bows his head slightly, still not looking: “it got out of control--” he starts, but he’s cut off, a gentle hand placed on his shoulder. he turns, then, but it’s too late (ajay realises what’s going to happen).

“it got out of control. oh, i hate when things  _ get out of control _ -” it’s hissed, and then there’s a blade, a knife, a something sharp, and it’s being stabbed in the soldier’s throat; blood spraying everywhere, yet again. the body is flipped, and the man - no, the  _ leader _ \- collapses on the floor beside it. he lifts his hand again, this time is simple annoyance, and whispers: “and i got blood on my fucking shoes.”

he climbs to his feet, noding at ajay. “get up, boy. get up.” so ajay does, legs shaking like a fawn. the man, even closer, is scarier than he expected; there’s blood covering his features now, and his eyes are murderous, though a dark, soothing brown - a contrast, if you will. lines sewn into his face show that he might not be as young as others, but he’s got much more experience under his belt; he seems like the kind of man who’d force others to do what he wants rather than do it himself, anyway, so age is not something he needs. 

and yet, his face turns softer when he looks ajay in the eye, almost paternal, and his posture turns a little more relaxed.

“i’d recognise those eyes anywhere.” he says, voice gentle; and ajay feels like he doesn’t know something, so he nods and barely bites back saying an inappropriate  _ ‘you too!’. _ the man isn’t content at leaving it at that, though, so draws ajay in for a hug, where he stands shell-shocked, staring at the ground behind him.

the man gives an apology for the situation, and ajay nods again; his brain is currently yelling ‘what the fuck~’ in eight different melodies, all at the same time (that’s how confused he is), and he fights the reflex to start running, because everything just got kind of creepy.

the attention moves from his, to the main still laying on the floor. it’s strange how the stranger's words turn more harsh, more cruel, but ajay can’t find anything in him to actually make his own voice work. 

“is this your plus one?” he asks, supplying another laugh at his own joke. “strong silent type. i like it.” the man on the floor is pulled up by a soldier, going limp in his arms, though ajay’s attention is taken away again.

“i’m terribly embarrassed about this,” he says, his repeated apology strangely sincere. in the background, ajay can hear a muffled yelp, along with the tightening of a zip, and fights the urge to look over. before he can think about anything more, though, he’s handed the bloody object from before - which reveals itself to be a pen, engraved with something, but ajay couldn’t quite make it out through all the blood - and then there’s a camera in his face.

he barely gets a look at the picture, once taken, but he knows he’s staring at the other man, a bewildered expression on his face; he’s seen handfuls of people get killed in the past five minutes, had a conversations with their murderer, had a strangely paternal moment with said murderer, and then had his not-friend-but-he’s-seen-my-passport-so-i-don’t-know tied up and taken away, so he thinks he’s allowed to look a little confused.

“awesome.” he says at the picture, though, barely a huff of breath. “don’t worry about a thing, my boy-” he reassures, smiling at him as the bus catches fire in the background- “this will soon be behind us. it’ll be an awfully grand adventure because i have cleared my calendar for you.”

there are footsteps behind him, though he takes no notice as he watches the other man hop back on the helicopter. he waves at ajay, a weird sort of smile on his face, before he’s submerged into darkness; a strangely soft piece of fabric over his head, smothering him.

“‘cause you and i-” he hears- “are gonna tear shit up!”

everything after that becomes a blurred out memory.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings:   
>  -food ment.   
>  -kidnapping  
> -torture ment. (not described)

everything is still dark, for what feels like hours later. he’s breathing heavily, can hear and feel the huffs of hot breath against his cheeks. the bag is quite thick, and makes it hard to actually breathe. his entire face is warm, feels like it’s burning, though the rest of his body is strangely cold, with goosebumps travelling up his arms and legs, hiding on the back of his neck. he hears faint glimpses of a seemingly pleasant conversation, though he can’t focus on anything but the panic he’s feeling, with nothing seeming to calm him down.

he’s confused, like:  _ am i gonna die? _ or,  _ am i gonna get tortured? _ but he’s also scared, like:  _ oh shit what the fuck _ . or,  _ i’m just here for my mom what the fuck. _

he hears an exasperated voice, complaining: “well, go on; take the bloody bag of his head!”, which is the only warning before his eyeballs feel like they might actually explode. he blinks for a few seconds, going to shield himself, though his hands are still tied to the table. a man - another man - that he doesn’t recognise is untying his wrists, too, and ajay rubs them gently once they’re free.

ajay looks around the table he’s sat at. across from him, there’s the man in pink; his face is leaned on any blood, as is his suit, though it’s the exact same colour (or, perhaps, it’s a duplicate). his hair looks cleaner, too, like he’d gone to shower. ajay wouldn’t put it past him.

on the left, there’s a white man, who’s vague on the stubble and strong on the wrinkles. there are lines in his forehead, from frowning, and even heavier lines on his cheeks, from smiling. his red t-shirt is loose, hanging off his frame, though ajay didn’t look long enough to see what it reads. he’s wearing a thick jacket too, it seems; a camouflage one, though more for fashion. ajay is confused by it, because it’s actually a really nice temperature, even with the wind blowing. 

on the right, it’s the older man who took his passport. ajay stares at him the longer, but he stares at the table, at his food; it’s a meal ajay has never seen before, though he doesn’t quite think he’s in the mood to try it. ajay looks away, after seeing his hands shake, just a little (ajay wonders if he’s as terrified as he feels; a shared  moment of fear).

the table is neatly set out, too, with plentiful amounts of food, along with bright candles flickering. it looks, from the position of the sun and ajay’s poor guesses, to be about six in the afternoon, give or take, as everything has a very ‘evening’ feeling to it. there’s a warm breeze, and flapping pieces of cloth that are attached to the building, but ajay is too scared to ask what their purpose is. 

he also notices, rather suddenly, that his mother’s urn is on table, and he stares at it, cautiously (he would prefer that it stay in his bag, away from prying eyes; that’s his mom, for fuck’s sake).

“again,-” a voice says, pulling him out of his thoughts (or his intense staring contest with his mother)- “terribly sorry about what happened before; this is more what i had in mind.” he gestures around the room as he talks, and ajay takes another quick glance. it looks nice, almost pleasant, though the undertones of Before still echo in his mind.

he claps his hands, drawing ajay back again. “so! fresh start, introductions.-” he points to ajay- “ajay ghale, our guest of honour-” he moves to the man on the left- “paul, our  _ very _ gracious host-” he moves to the other side- “the little monkey who’s name i still don’t know-” and finally,- “and i, of course, am pagan min.”

his lack of response, nothing more than a nod, seems to be a little disappointing, though, and pagan adds, “you, you really don’t remember me, do you?” ajay feels like shouting about how he doesn’t know what the fuck is going on at all and if you could stop asking him things, that would be great, but he doesn’t, instead just shaking his head, slowly, as if scared to spook the elephant in the room. “your mother? she never spoke of me, never mentioned me, no?”

ajay shakes his head; his āmā never did like speaking of her home.

“well, we’ll change all of that: paul, i need cash.”

paul’s voice is deeper than expected: “how much do you need?” he asks, as he pulls his wallet from his pocket, digging through it. ajay catches a glimpse of a picture, a little girl it seemed like; he forgets her face quickly.

“all of it.” pagan replies, snatching it out of paul’s hands. “thank you.” he adds, though it’s mainly as a side note. “here we go-” he says, holding up one of the notes next to his face and smiling slightly. “huh? alright.” he continues, when ajay sits and watches the scene, feeling completely alien-like in the situation (he has no clue what’s going on, please, help him).

“what about this one?” this time, his smile is wider, though his eyes still look tired. it seems ajay’s lack of response is making him sad - ajay does not like thinking about what that means. pagan holds one more note, but holds this one forward, closer to ajay’s face, and he finally sees what he was trying to say.

“that’s you,” he comments, his heart outrageously scared (he wonders, absentmindedly, if they can hear it thumping). his voice sounds a bit dry, though there’s no drinks on the table, despite the amazing amount of food.

“that’s me.” pagan replies, and yet, he doesn’t sound happier. “now your mother!-” a swift conversation change- “your mother on the other hand…” he trails off, and picks up the ashes,  _ her _ ashes, and take the lid off. ajay makes to stand, though he’s pushed back down, warningly, forced to watch as pagan dips his finger in and takes a taste: “god, that takes me back.”

“the last time i saw ishwari was-” he pauses to think for an appropriate word- “was years ago. she told me she loved me.” ajay falters at that, wide-eyed look reappearing, giving him a wild sort of expression. “women, they can do that; they can tell you they love you in the moment and mean it. men, on the other hand? men only really love you in hindsight, once too much distance is built up.”

there’s a moment of silence at the table, which is hinted with slight awkwardness. pagan, however, does not see it, or just ignores it, creating an all-round uneasy atmosphere (though paul doesn’t seem that bothered as he just scratches his chin as if it’s all normal).

“so, when you’re mother decided to flee to the united states, with you on her hip-” and ajay internally sighs, but also internally leans forward with interest, because he knows nothing about his life before the age of three- “i couldn’t help but blame myself. and then i realised,-” he says, placing his hands on the back of, if ajay remembers correctly, the  _ ‘little monkey who i don’t yet know the name of’ _ s chair, who flinches forward- “it’s not me. no, it was the fucking  _ golden path _ .”

the little monkey man is shoved down onto the table, his head landing in the uneaten plate full of food, spraying little chunks of it everywhere. and then, there’s a fork in his back, too, fully embedded. the monkey man groans, deep and painful, and suddenly, there’s a finger in ajay’s face, pointing as if accusing someone: “those fucking terrorists. they ruin everything. like dinner!” pagan looks down at the monkey man, who’s trying to look anywhere but in his eyes, and ajay doesn’t know whether to help or to run away screaming, though he doesn’t know how or whether he even could do either.

“did no one ever teach you that it’s rude to text at the table?” pagan says, receiving another groan from the monkey man and a barely concealed chuckle from paul (who are we kidding; paul full on laughed). “let’s see it.” he says, slapping monkey man’s hand until it falls away from the phone. he holds it up, glaring at the guards who stand at the entrances of the room (ajay didn’t even see them before). “really, guys? we’re not checking for these anymore?”

he changes his accent to read out the texts. “‘i’m with ajay ghale’-” he points at paul, with a hint of a smile- “you’ll love this part: ‘help’.” there’s a phone pushed into his face, too quick for him to even comprehend anything it says, and it’s accompanied by a strangely joyous laugh.

the next scene was so traumatic for twenty two year old who has only recently witnessed his first real life murder that he forgets it, or tries to anyway. the recurring nightmare he has of the memory for the next month tells him otherwise, but maybe someday it’ll slip it mind.

or maybe someday, the scene won’t even bother him when he thinks about it; everything else that has ever played out around him has been worse, and it always will be.

 

* * *

 

monkey man is dragged out of the room by the two guards, with paul following closely at their heels. it takes thirty seconds for the screams to start, and ajay flinches at every single one of them, his imagination getting the best of him.

pagan min leaves quickly, too, expressing for ajay to “stay right here”, “enjoy the crab rangoon”, and “don’t move”, as he will be right back. 

of course, in ajay’s mind that means “let’s explore”, “steal the money that’s still left on the table”, and “get the fuck out of here as soon as possible”, as if he stays here one more minute, he’s not sure what he’ll do. 

he leans across the stable and grabs his mother’s ashes, first, gently placing the lid back on. his backpack is by his chair, for some reason, so his picks it up and places her in, before slinging it on his back. he grabs the money, like he said, stuffing it in his pocket, as there’s no wallet currently available. 

with one last look over the spectacular view - truly, those mountains look amazing -, he runs down the stairs, before realising he should be quiet and walk as quickly and softly as he can. he doesn’t know where he’s going, so when he sees an open door, he walks through it and hopes he doesn’t end up in a room full of soldiers who wouldn’t hesitate in putting a bullet in him.

he follows the pathway that unfolds in front of him, which unfortunately leads him to monkey man, who’s is Not having a good time. ajay looks away before he feels too queasy. he opens the door to exit the room quickly, but there’s a gun centimetres from his face, now, and he steps back, about to fucking yell, but it’s lowered. 

it’s dim in the hallway, a red glow of a strange light shining, but ajay can still make out a few things. the man with the gun’s expression can’t be read, but ajay can see his hair is black and tied back in a ponytail, and that his hands are slightly scratched. he thinks he can see a scar on his lip, though everything’s too dark for him to tell.

the man speaks calmingly, though, as if he hadn’t just thrust a gun in someone’s face. “ajay ghale.” he says, and god, ajay hates that people know his name, know so much about him that he’s never been told.

he notices someone being dragged across the floor in the background, leaving a trail of something - is that blood? - across the wooden planks. the live soldier is wearing the same uniform as the pair on the back of the minibus; a jacket with a yellow sigil along the back and arms of it. the man with the gun seems to be wearing a similar thing.

“my names sabal-” thank god, people learnt to introduce themselves quickly- “i’m with the golden path.” his voice is deep, and sounds like is could belong to some of the ASMR youtubers ajay used to watch when he couldn’t sleep. 

“golden path?” he can’t stop himself from saying. “the terrorists?”

sabal shakes his head. “we’re friends, not terrorists. i knew your father-” ajay pales at this, though it’s not clear through the red lens of the room- “we’re here to rescue you, son of mohan.”

he has very mixed feelings about the whole thing, but he hears the word ‘rescue’ and decides to fuck it; he doubts he’d get out of here alone, so this is amazing. he’ll take any chance he can get, even if it means talking to a random stranger who knows more about his family history than ajay does.

“what about monkey man?” as soon as ajay says it, he wishes he could melt into the floor.

“who?” sabal asks, frowning. 

“the guy who was with me. i don’t know his name.”

“you are our priority.” sabal reassures, though ajay looks back at monkey man, who’s breathing heavily due the electricity being sent through him. “we need to get you out of here safely, no matter the cost.” ajay doesn’t really like the sound of lives being compared to money, but sabal continues, not seeing the discomfort in his face. “darpan-” his name is darpan!- “would understand. now stay close.”

and that’s the end of the conversation, with sabal turning to walk up the stairs, looking back at him with a look that conveys  _ ‘what the fuck are you doing, kid?’ _ when ajay turns to look back at darpan, one last time.

“they know we’re here.” sabal says, when the voices get louder outside of the room. there’s an alarm blaring now, too, like a prison, and sabal seems to look over his options. “the door, quickly!”

two golden path soldiers stand either side of it, and move away slightly when sabal approaches. both of them look weary, but it’s okay; ajay can’t see it (that fucking lighting).

“ajay, when these doors open, i need you to keep your head down and make a run for the truck. move as fast as you can. understand?”

ajay feels like a child, but he nods. for a brief second, he wonders what will happen if he gets shot, but he decides to fling that thought into the void and continue with his (terrible, fucking terrible) day.

sabal counts to three, and then everyone’s moving; the three soldiers are out the door and the sounds of bullets immediately increase. ajay takes a breath, two, three, and he’s out the door, too, running so quick he can feel his heart complaining (what the fuck, dude, i know we exercise but give a guy some warning, aight?).

there’s dust everywhere, and he fights the urge to cough as he runs because surely that wouldn’t help, right? he can feel everything, as if his senses were heightened by fear, as he runs to that truck as if it’s his last lifeline (and, to be fair, it probably is).

he climbs inside the truck, and it sets off before he’s even sat in the seat, before he’s even closed the door. he pretends he doesn’t notice his hands shaking, or the sweat rolling down his neck and back. “go! i’ll cover you!” the radio chimes, and sabal’s barely familiar voice, but it’s just background noise to what would be ajay’s panic attack if he thought he’d be able to freak out and not die. 

he sees an elephant out of the corner of his eye. fuck.

the car is playing a song, something in nepali that ajay can barely translate (he can barely speak the language, let alone understand it when he feels like he’s going to shit himself and throw up and have a heart attack all at once). it’s probably the least calming thing he’s ever heard, and his old house used to have a baby in the room next door.

before ajay can even think about regulating his breathing, there’s a gun forced into his hands; his only instruction is “shoot”, with a hidden secret of ‘and don’t fucking miss’.

they manage to drive for about a minute, perhaps half of one, with ajay mindlessly shooting as if he was born to do it and the driver swerving out the way of cars with reflexes like a cat; at least, until there’s a car coming in from the right side, and they’re dangerously close to the edge of the hill, and there’s a cry of “hold on” and an arm against his chest.

and then, it’s dark.

(yeet)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings:   
>  -food ment.

ajay knows he’s a morning person, even if they’re rare. he’s always woken up early, and has always loved the sunrise - a moment of peace in the shitstorm that is life. and yet, when the sun is shining brighter than a fucking flashlight, and there’s a weird, sticky liquid against the side of his head, he feels like absolute shit.

and that is putting it lightly.

there’s a low buzzing in his ears, and he looks around for the source, managing to sit up. ajay massages his head, which aches as if someone is rhythmically slapping a drum (with the drum being his skull).  _ at least he can breathe, _ he supposes.  _ at least i’m not dead. _

he doesn’t quite remember what happened - there was a bus, a bit of death, and then some food (crab rangoon?), along with screaming and more death, and then nothing - but he decides he can worry about that later when he’s not, you know, sat on the ground at the bottom of a cliff, wondering where he went wrong in life.

(he pretends he does not vomit, because that’s one: embarrassing as hell, and two: makes him feel even worse, even though he knows he hit rock bottom just a little bit ago).

there’s a stinging in his shoulder, too, though that isn’t his wound - he can tell by the way it’s slightly disconnected, almost numb, instead of raw and burning. despite everything, he wonders whether his soulmate okay. despite everything, he feels a bit sorry for them, but at least they know what it feels like to have your skull seemingly try to collapse in on itself with no warning.

only after a couple of minutes of staring at the ground does he remember where he is, and how unsafe he is. he’s calmer now, though, and his hands aren’t even shaking anymore. progress is progress, no matter how small.

“ajay-” the radio says, by his feet, laying by the dead man’s body; it’s a surprise that it wasn’t destroyed in the fall- “if you’re hearing this respond-” ajay climbs to his feet, wavering just a little, before stepping forward and picking it up- “ajay ghale, response, please--”

“hello?” he says, voice scratchy. god, he’s thirsty. and tired. and in need of a granola bar or something. he feels like he could eat a horse, and drink a horse’s weight too.

there’s a loud sound of breathing on the other side, which ajay realises is a sigh of relief. “thank kyra!” the man says, and ajay frowns. “this is sabal-” he’s heard that name before- “where are you?”

the man - sabal - seems friendly, so ajay takes his chances. “i don’t know.” he replies helpfully. “fuck, think drivers dead.”

“okay, listen to me--” he says, and ajay does not listen at all, getting distracted by the knife sticking that’d fallen out of its sheath. “--ee a tower nearby. i need you to make your way there.”

and off he goes, barely listening as sabal talks in his ear. he seems to talk an extremely long time, and ajay wonders how he can do it (ajay wonders whether he’s hurt at all; surely no one who is not in prime condition could ever talk this long). it’s oddly comforting, too, as all ajay can hear is white noise.

_ everything's fine,  _ ajay thinks to himself.  _ everything is absolutely wonderful. _

 

* * *

 

ajay hears the tower before he sees it, with it broadcasting in nepali at a too-high volume that makes ajay’s ears ache. he continues towards it, though, because sabal asked him too and god, he’d do anything for a nice nap right now.

he walks into the bell tower, out of breath (after everything, hills are still his enemy), and no one even comments on the gun he holds in his hands. he doesn’t know whether he should be relieved or sad, because that’s the norm for these people now (that’s the norm for him now). 

sabal greets him, though his eyes  _ do _ pause on the gun, for just a fraction of a second, before they’re back up to ajay’s eyes, smiling again. “ajay, you made it! good job-” he says- “son of mohan.”

ajay knows he’s gonna hate that, soon enough.

“why are you guys helping me?” he asks. he’s truly confused about it, too. he’s come to this foreign country that’s in the middle of the civil war, and he’s already seen the contrast between the two parties. one seems to be evil - pure evil, as they murder without meaning and torture for fun. the other seems calmer, gentler, as if they’re the personification of coming home after a cold winter’s day. ajay can’t describe it, but the golden path feel comforting compared to the company of pagan min; something about that man throws him off, and it’s so much easier to talk to people fighting for freedom than a man who looks at him and sees someone else in his eyes.

everything good he’s just said about the golden path goes out of the window when sabal replies, “you’re the son of mohan ghale.” of course, it is his father’s name what saves him, despite him not even knowing the man. “you may not know it, but that name carries a lot of weight in kyrat, especially for the golden path.”

“are those army guys still looking for me?” conversation change: smooth.

“pagan min will stop at nothing to get you back.” it sounds certain, as if it may be the one thing that sabal truly knows. ajay doesn’t shudder but it’s a close thing. he can’t even pretend that his headache hasn’t gone, along with the stinging in his shoulder. it’s okay, though; they’ll be somewhere with a bed soon.

“damn-” sabal says, and ajay looks up from the floor, where he’d sat down for a quick second’s rests- “some of pagan’s men managed to track us. they’ll be here any second. we’re in for a fight.”

ajay stands, sighing so heavily the world shakes, and catches the gun that’s thrown at him by another soldier. this one is cleaner and the bullets are already reloaded. he’s surprised to note that shooting comes naturally to him, as if it were his birth rite. 

he goes outside with the rest of them, forming a team of five soldiers. it’s not a lot but it’ll have to do. if he dies, then so be it. he’s so fucking cold that he’s willing to take the fires of hell over this bullshit.

“here they come.” sabal says, and places a hand on ajay’s arm. “i know you don’t want to do this but it’s the only way--”

  
“i know.” ajay replies. “it’s okay,” he says, and sabal takes his hand back, a lingering look of forlorn feeling in his eyes. 

here they come, ajay thinks to himself. he pretends that he doesn’t feel worse and worse with every bullet that he shoots. 

 

* * *

 

there’s an avalanche.

 

* * *

 

when ajay comes too, cold and shivering, it’s sabal’s face he sees above him. that alone is enough to wake him up completely, making him sit upright, with snow cascading down his freezing body (perhaps he’d look cute, if his lips weren’t blue and his teeth weren’t chattering).

“you are a tough man to kill, brother.” is the first thing sabal says, or it might be the first thing that ajay hears. ajay thinks how they met yesterday, maybe two days ago - everything’s a bit blurry, okay? - and he’s already getting called brother. he’ll take  _ brother _ over ‘son of mohan’ any day.

“that’s a good thing, right?” he says, with a breathy laugh as he’s pulled to his feet. he looks around and everything is as he remembers it, though a bit lighter. the sky is nicer today, too, with it being more blue than grey; something that brings him a little peace for the future.

sabal doesn’t reply with anything but an earnest smile. ajay’ll take it.

 

* * *

 

it’s when they’re just outside the village - banapur village, sabal said, is the home to the golden path; you’ll like it - that ajay finally asks: “how’d you know to find me?”

“we saw pagan’s chopper nearby. he’s never down this far south and i wanted to know why.” sabal explains, and when he looks at ajay, it feels like ajay sees him for the first time.

his hair is like he described it before - slightly untidy, though nothing that obstructs his vision; a dark colour, too, like spilled ink across paper made for writing letters -, but now, ajay can see that it  _ is _ a scar on his lip and he fights the urge to ask for the story that accompanies it. 

his outfit is surprisingly tidy, too, with it seemingly being fitted to him. it’s different from the rest of the soldier’s outfits; it’s more fancy-looking, for lack of better words, though it kept its yellow emblem on the arms and back of it.

there’s a little bit of stubble on his face, but nothing much. it adds to The Look™ that sabal seems to be going for. ajay can not and is not complaining. 

“lucky for you,” sabal continues, drawing ajay back to the present. “we were in the area when we got darpan’s text.” there’s a moment where they just look at each other, an unreadable expression on sabal’s face that makes ajay feel vaguely uneasy. “well, we’re here.”

ajay turns to look at the town. it’s pretty, though quite small. there seems to be only ten or twelve houses, though he can see some tents, too. it uses a lot of stone in its buildings, and there’s lots of colours - whether it’s in the stalls that are outside of buildings, or the decorations that have been put up for some kind of event and never taken down. 

“welcome to banapur, home of the golden path.” sabal introduces, and there’s a note of pride in his tone.

“who’s this?” someone asks, walking up to them. ajay’s momentary feeling of peace is overcome by the presence of ‘oh god am i going to get slapped?’. “where’s darpan?” the woman asks.

her expression is fierce, like a tiger, and ajay is scared that she might actually pounce on him and rip his throat out. pleasant thoughts, of course. when her gaze moves from sabal to him, it turns more calculating, as she scans him up and down.

“he didn’t make it.” sabal says, completely tactless, and ajay looks at him with a look of betrayal. “this is ajay ghale. mohan’s son.” 

ajay looks at the floor and feels like screaming. sabal apparently does not know how to read a situation, because this woman looks more murderous with everyone word he says.

“let me understand-” and oh, how nothing good every starts with those three words- “darpan’s dead? and you brought me this?”

ajay is currently praying to every single god that he knows that they’ll let him be swallowed up by the floor. no such luck. he notices a smaller girl behind the Scary Lion Lady. is it normal for children to be here?

ajay speaks up before sabal can make things worse. “i’m not involved in… whatever this is. i’m just looking for lakshmana.” 

and oh, he wishes he’d let sabal do whatever he wanted because she glares at sabal, learns forward and hisses: “we’re in the middle of a fucking war. we don’t have time for tourists.” she turns away at that, leading the young girl with her. ajay is used to being intimidated; however, this feels like a spiritual experience with the devil (maybe he shouldn’t be that harsh, but he was pretty goddamned terrified).

sabal shouts after her, though she dismisses it with a wave of her hand. ajay can already feel the strong tension between the two. 

but when sabal turns to face him, his expression clears quickly. “i’m sorry, brother-” he says, and it sounds genuine. “amita’s a little touchy. i’ll talk to her.” 

“thanks.” ajay replies, for lack of anything else to say.

“as for lakshmana,” sabal starts, and takes a deep breath, as if he’s thinking. “it sounds like it couple be a temple or shrine. but if that’s the case, it’s in the north.”

“we can’t go into the north, can we?” ajay asks, though it’s almost entirely rhetorical because he can already see the sombre look on sabal’s face. “it’s fine. we’ll get there eventually, right?”

“right.” he agrees, but it’s laced with hints of disbelief. a bell chimes, and that seems to get sabal moving. “you can sleep in that house there-” he points at the building nearest- “though some people might walk in and grab things whilst you’re in there. they’re friends, so you don’t have to worry.”

ajay was already sold with the words ‘sleep’.

he faintly remembers wishing sabal goodbye and goodluck and having the sentiment returned to him. it’s so warm in the bed, but his dreams are so very cold; an echoing cry for help, the buzzing of electricity, and the screams of pain were what awaited him.

he doesn’t quite think sleep if worth it, if you end up waking up before you finish your third hour of it.

 

* * *

 

the village is strangely calm at four in the morning.

he’s been awake for a while, but he’s only just left the house he’s been lent. he found a jacket to borrow, too, and left his other one discarded on the floor, as it’s covered in mud and ajay is trying to have a Moment Of Peace (and also cleanliness).

so he’s Just Chillin’ in the peace and quiet, with the cold wind whipping his face and leaving him feeling strangely alive. there’s a few murmurs of what could be a conversation if everyone was more awake, but the majority of people tended to be sound asleep. oh, how ajay envied them.

he doesn’t mind it really. the pounding in his skull has stopped, and he’d had somewhere to wash his face and scrap the dried blood of the side of his face. he thinks, minus the bags under his eyes and the slight limp in his walk, that he’d look like normal. that thought is comforting, considering so much has changed in the last few hours.

like i said: everything is strangely calm at four in the morning, and strangely calm is exactly what ajay needs.

he continues to sit upon a stone wall for a while, just breathing in the fresh air. everything's fresh compared to the city; and look, you can even see the faint glow of stars. 

when he thinks of the stars, he thinks of his soulmate. everyone has one, or so it seems (there’s been no media coverage of someone without a soulmate, but there’s always exceptions to every rule). they’re linked through strong physical feelings, and even stronger emotional feelings once they meet.

though their souls are made for each other, there’s plenty of debates about whether you should feel obligated to be with your soulmate or not. ajay tends to tune it out, and hasn’t formed much of an opinion. he just wants them to stop bashing their head on a rock.

but, above all, ajay just wants his soulmate to be okay. 

 

* * *

 

“ah, ajay!” the greeting is loud and informal. ajay wishes he had a coffee or something, just to make it a bit more bearable. “i found some things to make your time here safer.” wow, that is reassuring. ajay is about 2% certain he won’t die a horrible death.

he’s given a rucksack and told to look through it and sort it into what he wants and doesn’t want. any remaining items should be left in the room where he slept for community use. ajay takes a map, a lighter, and switches out his blade - which he’s been informed is called a kukri - to one of a sharper variety. he’s also directed to the gun shop, to which he swaps out his gun for something better, and also grabs a pistol (a nice ‘just in case’).

sabal goes about his business and ajay goes about his, deciding that it’s time for him to explore now, in the light of day. he follows the stone path but stops, just before he leaves by the village path, when he sees amita and the young girl - who can’t be older than fourteen or fifteen - holding a bow loosely in her hands, staring at the floor with such a strong intensity. when he looks at amita’s face, he realises the girl is being scolded, though for what, ajay doesn’t know.

he steps forward, into the small inclosure-like patch of land, and both turn to look at him. amita steps back, hand on her hips, and says, “ah! the tourist.”

ajay stands awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot. the young girl’s face is one of pity.

“i’m amita.” she introduces. “this is bhadra-” the points to the girl beside her.

“hi.” ajay says, and bhadra offers a slight wave.

“keep working.” amita orders, and then she leads ajay a few meters away. “look, i overreacted back there-” she says, and the tension in ajay’s shoulders lessens- “we’re at war. we keep losing soldiers, the work keeps piling up.”

and ajay, because his mother taught him to always try to help out, offers to help. amita jumps on the opportunity quickly.

“sure-” a pause- “there’s a farm not far from here. kanan runs it, but she’s old and she could use your help with some wild animals.” she walks over to a table, and ajay follows; on it, there’s a few lit candles, a radio, and a bow, with arrows beside it. “i need you to keep the hides intact, so use this.”

amita leaves to attend to bhadra, leaving ajay staring at the bow. he’s never fired one in his life, and he doubts it’s as easy as the movies make it look. barton, give him strength. 

 

* * *

 

he doubts the old lady - kenan, he remembers - even realised he was there, as she seemed to sleep the entire time, no matter how loud the wolves howled. ajay had gotten used to the bow, though his fingers ached, as did his arm from where the string had hit it a few times. all in all, he’s quite impressed with his skills, despite the fact that he’d nearly been bitten more times than he’d like to count.

he’s physically okay (he thinks his mild concussion may have healed, because he’s remembering the events of the last few days in vivid details), though his conscience is kind of panicking because  _ oh my god i’ve killed people i’m not supposed to kill people what the hell  _ \- he ignores it.

he comes back to the farm quickly, with the skins resting on his shoulder (what he managed to salvage was barely anything worth note, though no one comments on it). he’s greeted with amita, kenan, and bhadra, who all seem to be taking a break from chores.

“hey, bhadra.” ajay greets. “how are you?”

“good,” she replies, though there’s a strange sound of shock in her voice. 

“i, uh-” he starts, turning to amita. “brought you these pelts. thought maybe you could use them.”

“these are good, ajay-” amita says, weirdly impressed, considering ajay did a piss poor job- “but you keep them. kenan has enough for her thangka paintings.”

“thangka, what?” ajay asks. amita gestures to the floor beside her, where five paintings sit. 

“this one is about a famous story of the fate of two soulmates. the next one is about the demon yalung, and the third one is of the goddess kyra. the fourth one is about kalinag and his companions-” she sounds almost bored as she explains, and she almost rolls her eyes when she talks about the religious figures- “and that one,” with her voice turning bitter, worse than all the rest, “is about bhadra.”

“bhadra?”

“the next tarun matara.” amita says, mockingly, and this time she does roll her eyes. “the tarun matara is a living goddess, if you believe sabal.”

“that’s--”

“that’s no life for a child, being treated like an object, a thing.” amita huffs, a sour expression on her face. that’s the end of the conversation. “thanks for your help. later, we’ll show you how to put it to good use.”

“thanks,” ajay replies, and then, amita’s closed the door and ajay turns back to the ATM he arrived on. 

he doesn’t quite know where to go, so he drives back to banapur village. he supposes he’ll ask others if they need help with simpler things than killing wolves, because he may he a tourist but he doesn’t want to drag others down. 

it’s only when he arrives does his shoulder start to burn, making ajay clasp his hand to it and grit his teeth, hissing out a string full of swears. if anyone notice, there’s no comments, which ajay is glad about. he’s still sat in the ATM, and he feels the beads of sweat on his soulmate’s forehead running down his face (ajay hates it, because he can’t even wipe it away). 

he doesn’t know how long it lasts, but it’s not helped that it’s topped with a feeling of concern too (concern for his soulmate? he’s never really felt that before. he wonders where it’s from, but then there’s more stinging and he forgets about it). when the pain finally starts to fade, enough to a point that he can walk without clutching his shoulder as if trying to stop blood, ajay stands and continues his journey to the village centre, to sabal, and pretends that he didn’t just spend minutes hunched over on his bike.

he makes his way to the house he slept in, and there sat sabal. his outfit is lacking it’s usual jacket and shirt, instead with him wearing a tank top. there’s a fresh wound on his shoulder, and ajay looks at it with weary eyes (he seems to have forgotten that people get shot, which means people get hurt). sabal’s hair is down too, though he’s pushed it out of his face and behind his ears. ajay watches as a strand repeatedly falls back into his face, and sees, repeatedly, sabal pushing it back, barely paying it any attention.

“sabal?” ajay asks, stepping forward to the desk sabal’s sat at.

“ah, ajay.” sabal greets, eyes barely leaving the map he’s so focused on. he’s listening to radio reports, too, all of which seem to be negative.

“are you okay?” ajay asks.

“it doesn’t matter.” sabal replies. “anyway-” a quick conversation change- “what do you want?”

“can i-” ajay wonders how he’d be able to change sabal’s grim look into something closer to a smile- “can i help?”

sabal turns at this, looming away from his map, though he looks to be thinking. “how good are you at climbing?”

“my friends and i used to scale buildings at my old school?” ajay replies, and sabal doesn’t even bat an eye, as if that’s perfectly normal. he’s slightly sad at that. 

“would you be able to climb the bell tower nearby?” sabal asks. “i can mark it on your map. they’re vital; they spout propaganda and make it harder and more expensive for the golden path to communicate when we’re apart.”

“i can do that.”

“i’ll mark it on your map.”

ajay climbs to the top of the tower, turns it off no problem. he ignores the lingering feeling of pride when he hears the happiness behind sabal’s praise.

he’s directed to longinus. he is not warned of the explosive personality that is to come.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings:   
>  -hostage/kidnapping ment.

longinus is loud, is the first thing that ajay notes. loud and strong, but a different style compared to amita and sabal. longinus could be classed as crazy, but he would say it was the influence of the lord, as He made him the way he was. ajay won’t comment.

“you need guns to do righteous work, ajay-” longinus is saying, and ajay doesn’t even flinch when his name is mispronounced anymore; he’s more caught up about the facts that the words ‘guns’ and ‘righteous’ are in the same sentence- “for every gun is a bible, for every bullet - a sermon.”

ajay fights to keep his face neutral because - ajay is fine with this guy being religious, but guns  _ kill _ people. and ajay realises he can’t really make that argument because he’s used a gun and he’s killed people, but it’s still weird that everyone is so neutral, or positive, about using weapons.

he knows it’s a war. he knows that you have to fight to win the war. but at the same time, in the small corner at the back of his mind, he wonders how many innocents are affected by said weaponry, as people in positions of power use it to their advantage; how many people are accidentally shot, with no medical care to help them, and no therapy to help them recovery from a twisted experience that shouldn’t even have been a possibility.

longinus offers more guns, bullets, anything that ajay can name that is war-related, as long as he continues to clear radio towers from pagan min’s lies. ajay ignores the sickness that travels up his throat, threatening to make him choke.

before ajay can even try get a word out, though, there’s a buzz from his radio, and ajay pulls it out immediately, as if he’d been commanded too.

“banapur is under attack!” sabal’s urgent voice yells. “we need fighters here, now.”

“sabal, what’s happening?” ajay replies, the worry leaking into his voice. he, almost instinctively, grips his gun tighter, and hates himself for it.

when sabal registers that it’s ajay, he hisses, “stay away, it’s--”

the transmission cuts away, and ajay feels his crops die, his teenage angst - also known as depression - come back, and his acne return from the depths of hell.

ajay learns to drive with illegal speeds and god-like reflexes as he speeds to banapur village with a grace only a god could manage (well, guess what, buddy!). he ignores pagan when he discusses the old kyrat, where the war was just as ferocious as it is now, and his mother; it still stings when she’s mentioned, and hearing his established enemy talk about her with such ease makes ajay’s heart ache.

he arrives at the scene and immediately sees flames. internally, his screech is so high that only dogs can hear it. he runs passed a car, which explodes; perfect.

“i’m here, sabal.” he says, and shoots a guy in the skull. “how can i help?”

he hears sabal’s swear and ignores it. “keep your head down and save whatever you can.” good advice! ajay was gonna do that anyway. sabal adds that he’ll be there with reinforcements soon, and ajay nods, then realising that sabal can’t see him. he doesn’t reply to the message, assuming that nearly being set on fire is a good enough excuse to ignore forming a response.

there’s civilians running from the fire - both of guns and the live flames, that’s lashing at the the buildings like a whip - and ajay runs against the crowd, searching for the colour red. he remembers to snatch the ammo of the table where he was first given his bow.

halfway through the fight, there’s a helicopter. he feels oddly happy when someone grabs a grenade launcher and blasts it out of the sky; kyrat’s version of fireworks.

“i see soldiers coming for the community pucca!” amita warns.

“that’s where we put bhadra-” sabal replies, and ajay wonders just how scared she is, sat alone in a building, hearing the cries of the wounded and the bullets of the sick- “ajay, get her out!”

he sees the building they’re talking about, sees the smoke coming from it, and rushes to find a way in; he refuses to let a girl die just because no one thought to remove her from the scene of danger.  he climbs in through the second story window, using the hill to help him in. it’s even smokier inside, with there being so much that ajay can barely see, can barely breathe without choking.

he yells her name, though doubts she hears over the sound of fire and panic. he barely hears himself too; strangely enough, it’s darpan’s screams echoing in his ears.

he jumps down the lower floor and sees her, curling in a ball on the floor. he can’t see the rise and fall of her chest, with her body strangely, terrifyingly, deadly still.

and yet, he flings her over his shoulder - and she’s light, surprisingly light -, running at the door that’s covered in flames, resembling a gateway to hell. he hopes that it isn’t symbolism for what’s coming for them (spoiler: it’s not, he’s just being dramatic). 

he probably looks like a horse learning to walk as he stumbles to his feet, with the sunlight shining in his eyes, blinding him. he pants and coughs, breathing out an “i’m all right”, though he doesn’t know if anyone can even hear him.

there’s a weird pounding in his head, though it’s not physical - it resembles the sound of a drum, and it takes ajay a moment to realise it’s his heartbeat, with the background sounds being the garbled voices of the people around him.

he breathes, closes his eyes, and when he opens them to the world again, he’s okay. his throat may burn and his lungs may ache, but he’s fine; bhadra is alive. 

he notices the hand on his shoulder, and he turns, then sees sabal’s concerned face centimetres from his own. he doesn’t jump, but it’s a close thing; he leans into the comfort anyway, when he sees who it is.

“the people need to see her--” sabal says, and ajay sighs.

“she’s a child, sabal, and she’s terrified--” amita replies, exasperated.

“and i’ll take her home.” ajay cuts in. both look at him, eyes resembling the moon, with how wide they were. “bhadra will tell me the way.”

“but--” sabal starts, but amita cuts him off.

“good idea, ajay. we couldn’t have saved banapur without you.”

“take a break, brother.” sabal says, nodding as if he realised how this would benefit him more. “we’ll clean up here.”

bhadra steps forward, hugs him tight before pulling away, grabbing ajay’s outstretched hand, and they nod goodbye, heading down the broken cobbled pathway. there are no vehicles that could fit two of them, either being on fire or already burnt beyond repair. it doesn’t take long, anyway, to find the cabin by the waterfall.

it’s surprisingly pretty, even though money seems to be tight. it’s painted a light blue, a contrast to all the plain white houses of kyrat. there’s a garden of herbs out front, too, with the majority being green, which ajay has been told are the best for healing. 

the inside of the house is orderly as well, minus the bed in the corner of the room, which has books scattered everywhere, some even falling onto the floor. in response to ajay’s inquisitive look, bhadra replies, “i have to study.” and they leave it at that.

there’s a medical kit in one of the kitchen drawers, and ajay grabs it, but first runs cold water over the worst of bhadra’s burns - mainly the one on her hand, that started to travel up her wrist - and wrapping a clean bandage around it, apologising as she winces. she reassures him that it’s fine. he still feels bad.

they sit outside after they’d tidied themselves up, or to the best of their abilities. neither of them are doctors, or really know how to treat wounds; ajay got all of his medical knowledge from binging grey’s anatomy, half of which he can’t remember so he’s not the best in the field. 

they talk a lot, too, with ajay telling stories of home, usually ones from when he was younger (younger always seems to be a synonym for happier, right?). he tells the tales of when his mother used to take him to the park on the weekends, when she didn’t have any shifts, and how they’d always go to the ice cream place as a treat. he tells bhadra about his trips with school, where they went to a history museum which left ajay with such a strong interest in american history that it was all he would talk about for weeks, and how his mother would smile at him, even if she was bored with the topic.

and, in return, bhadra tells him of how one of the golden path members - she doesn’t know his first name, so calls him  _ mr. kim _ \- always gives her a toffee when he sees her, accompanied with a pat on the head and an eager smile. she spills her secret of how, when she was younger (younger is a synonym for carefree, right?), she often used to go to a place hidden behind trees, a field full of flowers, and hide from everyone, because people expected too much of her. 

it’s a bonding moment between them, even if they haven’t known each other long, but lonely people always did attach themselves to the first ounce of comfort they’re given, and, god, do they need someone to hold their hand and promise everything’s okay.

they watch as the sun sets and, when it gets too cold, they retreat indoors, sleeping next to each other as a brother and sister would, keeping warm despite the harsh temperatures of night.

 

* * *

 

of course, the peace from the night before can’t last forever, as ajay wakes up when bhadra starts shaking him, handing him a radio.

“--ay to get to the village. we’re regrouping and deciding what to do next. we can’t--”

“sabal?” his voice is dry from sleep, and bhadra fetches him a flask of water, which he takes gratefully, murmuring a thank you.

“ah, ajay.” sabal replies, voice softer than it was from when he spoke to bhadra. ajay frowns. “we’re forming a response to paul’s attack on banapur-”

“paul?”

“you might know him as ‘de pleur’. it was his compound that we rescued you from. he’s one of pagan’s generals.” suddenly, it clicks with ajay; de pleur was the ageing man was at the left of him at the table. remembering that sends a spike of fear down ajay’s spine. “come to banapur as soon as you can, ajay. amita and i are waiting for you.”

the radio cuts off, and ajay drops it in his lap, taking another sip of water.

“duty calls.” bhadra laughs, but it sounds slightly sad.

“i suppose it does.” he replies. “will you be okay here?”

bhadra nods.

“we’ll have to find that flower field again, won’t we?” ajay asks, a rhetorical question. “it’d be nice for you to have a break.”

bhadra smiles.

everything’s going to be fine.

 

* * *

 

banapur village is no longer orange, but a dark black (ash) mixed with hints of red (blood) dances across the walls. it’s dirty, and smells almost rotten, along with the heavy scent of metal and  _ burning _ that stings your nose and makes your eyes water.

even if it’s not the prettiest sight, it’s still calm enough, with people talking and trading as usual, and someone’s feeding their pigs, and others are sewing their crops. of course, it changes when sabal and amita exit a house, their loud arguing filling the empty air with harsh words and violent threats, but no one around them even blink an eye. 

“this is what we get for rescuing ajay!” amita says, poking sabal’s shoulder. “we hit paul’s house, he slaughters the village.”

“this isn’t on ajay.” sabal defends. “it’s on  _ me _ , but we can’t worry about who caused what right now. they took the outpost, and they have hostages.”

“and who’s fault is that?” amita sneers.

“mine.” sabal replies, glaring, and amita’s eyebrows raise, just slightly, revealing her shock, though it's quickly hidden again behind a poker face. “and now we’re going to recover what we’ve lost and launch a counter attack, because that is what we  _ do _ .”

“fine.” she replies. “the outpost first. without it, we’re cut off from the others.”

sabal nods in agreement, and both nod at each other - a faint goodbye - before walking away, going separate directions. ajay follows sabal, who had gestured at ajay to follow him. 

they don’t go far before sabal turns and says, “brother, we need to talk.”

even without reason, those words make ajay’s heart jump up his throat. is he gonna get stabbed? he knows there’s no reason to think this but What If. is he gonna be told to go home, as he’s in the way? or that he shouldn’t have taken bhadra away from banapur? ajay’s eyes go wide.

“what is it?” ajay replies, cautiously, and sabal must notice something’s wrong so he continues quickly.

“i’m needed in banapur, to help clean up the mess-” ajay flinches, just a little (mess? human bodies are a ‘mess’ now?)- “and amita is focused on the outpost, so it’s up to you to help with the hostages.”

the way sabal talks about them, as if they’re objects rather than people, makes ajay cringe. it’s not a lot to ask, no, for ajay to try and save others, just as no one else seems to be able to clear their schedule. ajay admits that he’s a bit bitter that lives seem to be worth nothing more than a moment’s thought.

sabal continues to argue with amita, even when she isn’t there, ajay notes, whilst sabal rambles on about the importance of lives, when the way he talks about them makes ajay feel like he doesn’t truly believe it. no true believer would refer to the murdered bodies’ of innocence as a ‘mess’.

sabal nods and walks away at the end of his speech, saying about how he has to go, which leaves ajay with a bow and arrows, and a vague idea of what he’s doing and how he’s going to do it. 

 

* * *

 

the hostage rescue goes well, with all of them surviving, though one sustains a bullet wound to the shoulder, from a soldier who didn’t quite hit their mark (thank god).

ajay unties them quickly, apologising for taking so long as they rub their raw wrists.

“thank you!” they say, gratitude clear on their faces. “what can we give you? we need to give you something.”

they don’t understand ajay when he refuses, thrusting money or sometimes jewellery or gems - family heirlooms, even - into his hands, despite him repeatedly saying that he doesn’t deserve anything for doing what’s right.

“and that’s why we’re giving it to y’, kid.” an older lady says, with another woman wrapped around her, their foreheads pressing together; a show of comfort, after what they’d been through. even if they weren’t holding hands or looking at each other like they hung the stars, you’d be able to tell they’re soulmates from a mile away, with how they talk about each other and how they seem just a little bit brighter when they’re together in the room.

“we’re givin’ it to y’ ‘cause you’re kind.”

“selfless.” the other lady adds, and her smiles so wide that the wrinkles across her cheeks crinkle just a little bit more. the sight itself makes ajay smile, a small, bashful look on his face. the two women laugh at him, friendly, and wish ajay goodbye, slowly walking down the hill, hand in hand, to a place they’ll call home. 

 

* * *

 

ajay reaches the outpost a few minutes later, after spending a bit more time where the hostages were kept, searching for ammo and intel, or whatever else he could find. he didn’t come up with much, but he found enough arrows that he should be fine.

his bowmanship has improved quite significantly, considering it’s his main weapon of choice. he seems to be a natural with it; likes the way it burns his fingers slightly, and soars through the air with grace and ease. 

he takes out the two chargers and five soldiers with not much difficulty, hiding in the hills behind shrubbery, shooting any soldiers who come close to discovering him. again, he thinks of the drastic change in his live a week ago versus his life now. maybe he was always raised to become a violent man, to be someone who killed others and didn’t think on it, and he refuses to argue that he’s doing it for good, because what good comes out of killing, really? 

a world without killing would be a better one. who can disagree with that?

and yet, he fires arrow after arrow, and throws knife after knife.  _ it is what it is _ , he thinks to himself. for one small moment, he wonders whether he’d be able to stop.

 

* * *

 

ajay’s sitting on the edge of the cliff, admiring the stars as he likes to in times like this.  _ the stars are so beautiful in this country _ , he will always say, no matter how many times he stares at them.  _ so unlike america and all of its pollution _ .

he jumps when amita sits down next to him, legs swinging by his own; almost a carefree gesture, one that’s almost childish, yet both do it anyway. it’s somewhat calming, though there’s no reason, that ajay can think of, as to why.

“first the hostages-” she says, and ajay smiles, a little sheepish, but she pays it no mind, as she’s not  _ really _ angry- “then the outpost. you’re not much of a listener, ajay.”

ajay thinks she sounds a little like his mother, and the way she used to tease him playfully, then ruffle his hair and bring him into a hug. he misses her, even if he doesn’t really have time to grieve. he doesn’t think he’ll ever not miss her, though, as she left a heart shaped hole in his chest. he wonders if he’ll ever find anyone to fill it.

“i have to admit-” amita continues, nodding- “you’ve done a good job today.”

“thanks.” ajay says, and thinks back to the elderly couple who looked so grateful. “it just felt like the right thing to do.”

“your mother would be proud.” amita says, and ajay smiles. “you want to reach - what was it? - lakshmana?” 

ajay nods.

“getting there won’t be easy. we lost the north to pagan min years ago, and we’re struggling here, in the south. i assume you’ve seen enough to understand why.”

“i’d promised my mom i’d bring her ashes there.” ajay explains, a sombre note in his voice now. it’s the first time he’s talked about it, really, and it hurts. it really hurts. “it was her dying with.”

he can’t see amita’s face, but he knows that she’s thinking. “your mother knew exactly what would happen once you showed up here in kyrat. the son of mohan ghale returning to the war-torn land of his birth. ishwari was a smart woman.”

ajay nods again, and sees her point. her mother was always smart, knew what battles she could and couldn’t win. thinking of it this way takes a little bit of the guilt away. “she was.” he agrees, for lack of other words to say. 

“stand with us, ajay-” she says, like she even has to offer. he knows what’s right and what’s wrong, and he knows how he feels. he’ll stand with them, to protect people like bhadra who are otherwise defenceless. he’ll stand with them for the old ladies who were too kind in their old age, and probably too trusting, too. he’ll stand for them for his mother, for his father, for his family’s legacy, because this is what they started, and it should be finished, even if it’s in their memory.

“stand with the golden path, and i promise you: you will fulfil your mother’s dying wish.”


	5. (short) epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings:   
>  -blood ment.

sabal sits in his lone house in banapur village, his hands covered in blood. he thinks he had some smeared on his cheek, too, which feels sticky and gross but he doesn’t have anything to wash it with. he’ll sort it by tomorrow, or something.

he sits on the floor, rather than the bed or the uncomfortable couch they have. the floor is grounding; it’s neither comfortable, nor hard enough to make his body ache. it’s grounding, because he knows he’s not tired enough to sleep on it, but it won’t hurt his already groaning bones.

sabal wonders with ajay knows, whether he’s realised that they’re related by mind and body - they’re soulmates.

sabal often has migraines; something he’s always worried about, because if they hurt him, then they hurt his soulmate too. and he’s in a war. a goddamned war. he’s received so many cuts and bullet wounds or bruises; hardly any of the touch he feels is for comfort, aside from the occasional clap on the back or brief hug.

though his soulmate - ajay, he repeats. ajay, ajay,  _ ajay _ \- never really gave him anything in return, except for the one time sabal felt his arm ache as if it were breaking. there were a few times where he felt a passionate hug (from his mother?), or a comforting hand on his cheek, but that’s about it. 

sabal does worry that ajay won’t like him, as he’s put him through a lot of pain. or he won’t like him because he’s always stressed and mean and shouts quickly because he doesn’t have the same temper that he used to.

but when he looks at ajay, he sees Perfection reincarnated as a man.

but when he looks at ajay, his heart beats a mile per minute and his body just can’t wait to be pressed up against him, a comfort in the form of a hug; with their hands linked, and their legs intertwined.

oh,  _ kyra _ , sabal is Gay **™.**

**Author's Note:**

> the series is currently on hiatus. it may start again in the future.
> 
>  
> 
>   
> [ajay](https://www.pinterest.co.uk/hokseok/ajay-ghale-far-cry-4/)  
> [sabal](https://www.pinterest.co.uk/hokseok/sabal-far-cry-4/)   
> [fic board](https://www.pinterest.co.uk/hokseok/red-roses-fic/)  
> [far cry 4 playlist (youtube)](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_rSVvI_mwOym0wEfUhqfsNM835FDpp2j)  
> 


End file.
